


Anxiety

by niallsfriedchicken



Category: Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Fear, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage, M/M, Off-screen Rape, Original Character(s), Panic, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:32:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niallsfriedchicken/pseuds/niallsfriedchicken
Summary: “You’re okay now, Zayn. Everything’s fine.”Liar. Liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar-“Can you hear me, Zayn? Can you speak? It’s okay if you’re scared. I just need to know if you’re okay. Does anything hurt?”Everything. Everything hurts.





	Anxiety

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings in Tags! 
> 
> No graphic descriptions of rape or underage but it's implied. Also, I plan to continue this soon, and One Direction will be included.

His feet curl in on themselves and his nails dig into his palms; knuckles turning white as he draws his knees into his chest and wraps his arms around them, eyes falling shut as ragged breaths leave his mouth in a quick succession.

_Please please please please please…_

He backs himself as far into the corner as physically possible, heaving out a sob as presses his hands to his ears; his entire body shaking in fear as he tries to drown out the sounds of the voices milling around him. It’s so loud, so loud, so loud, so _loud…_ he just wants it to stop.

 _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, please, I’m_ so _sorry…_

But the voices don’t stop. They get louder and louder and louder and then there’s hands on his body and someone’s touching him and he can’t get away and he’s crying and begging and shaking and he can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe-

_Please please please please please please…_

“Zayn.”          

He freezes, breath catching in his throat, hands stilling and heart thundering in his chest. He shakes his head, shoving as much of his body as he can into the small corner, hands coming over his head and tightening in his hair, pulling and yanking and shaking his head from side to side and banging it against the wall when the voice goes on.

_No no no no no no no no…_

“Zayn, breathe. It’s okay.”

The words plays in his head, over and over again, but he refuses to believe them, shutting his eyes and clenching his teeth because he can’t, he can’t, it’s not real, he’s dreaming, he’s dreaming and he’ll wake up and he’ll be back _there_ , trapped and alone and surrounded by darkness, and scared, _so_ scared-

_Please please please please please…_

He tries to keep quiet, tries to make himself smaller, but the voice gets closer and closer and louder and louder and he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what they want-

An arm lands on his shoulder and he screams.

He’s frantic then, breathing heavily as he scrambles away from the touch, curling into a ball, his limbs shaking and shaking and shaking as he screams himself raw. Tears are free-falling down his cheeks and sliding into his mouth, chest heaving with sobs and hiccups and coughs until he’s on his hands and knees and he’s retching all over the floor, the little food they managed to force into him spilling out of his mouth and leaving a foul taste in his throat.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, don’t be mad, don’t be mad, don’t be mad, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me-_

“Shit.” The voice mutters and Zayn’s panic grows impossibly. There’s movement around him but he can’t think clearly, can’t see past the tears that blur his vision, can’t make out the words being said over the frantic beating of his heart.

_Please please please please please please please-_

A loud screech interrupts his thoughts and he flies back into his corner, curling into a ball and raising his arms over his head in surrender. He doesn’t dare look up but he squints his eyes open and catches a peak of black shoes, khaki pants and a large baton a man is holding protectively at his side.

Zayn flinches at the sight, bracing himself for the attack, fists curled into his hair and painfully digging into his scalp, teeth biting into his lip so hard they draw blood. He whimpers when the feet come closer –a small, broken, desperate sound as the loud footsteps echo throughout the room– and draws his eyes away quickly; shutting them as tight as possible and bowing his head in submission. 

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room,” the new voice says, gruffer, less amiable, more demanding.

And Zayn sobs, shaking his head desperately because he can’t walk, can’t move, can barely drag himself forward. Everything hurts and he can’t breathe and his head is spinning and _he can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t._

Zayn is motionless and soundless where he’s curled in a defensive position on the floor, waiting for the blunt fingernails to curl at the back of his head and drag him forward, for the attacks to descend over his sore muscles and draw more pain and blood.

His lungs are burning as he forces himself to draw in another breath, sobs forcing their way out of his mouth despite his attempts to keep quiet, cursing himself because he knows that this is fault. _Stupid, pathetic, useless,_ he spits at himself in his head, his entire body tensing in anticipation when the footsteps grow louder, closer; whispered conversations passing around him that he isn’t privy to.

There’s another loud screech and Zayn screams, covering his ears on instinct, flinching violently when the first set of footsteps stalk away angrily and the door slams shut, rattling the doorframe.

There’s a quiet sigh that reminds Zayn that he isn’t alone, the breath of relief he was about to release caught in his throat as the second man draws closer.

_No no no no no no no no-_

He hears his name, again and again, but he can’t hold onto the rest of the words; can’t place the voice that’s speaking to him in quiet, gentle tones; can’t escape the churning feeling in his stomach as he vomits all over himself, still huddled in his corner, struggling blindly against the words and the touches on his shoulder because he knows there’s _no way_ he won’t be punished for that.

 _Please, please, I’ll be better, I’ll be good, I’ll be_ so _good, don’t hurt me, please please please, please, please, please, please-_

He tries to force the words out of his throat but his voice is weak and broken and all he manages to do is mumble incoherently, sobbing into his little corner and hoping against hope that he’s allowed to pass out from the pain.

He doesn’t even hear the screech of the door this time; the sound lost completely between his sobs, ragged breaths, racing heart and the pounding in his head.  He does hear when the door clicks shut softly, the room falling silent aside from his shaky, panicked breathing. And Zayn cries harder, both from relief and exhaustion; his body collapsing onto the floor.

Snot and tears mix with grime and filth and puke as he rests his head on the cold tile flooring, drawing his legs into his chest and wrapping his arms around his shaking knees, ignorant of the aches in his body, the tears drying on his cheeks and the blood running down his arms from where he scratched his skin raw; content to just let his eyes fall shut and his breaths even out as he’s welcomed by darkness.

\---------------

Zayn opens his eyes to blinding white lights and hushed voices. It takes a moment for everything to come into focus, the shapes around him still slightly blurry from the moisture gathered in his eyes but clear enough to be distinguishable. He catches glimpses of different people as his eyes move about the room warily, all dressed in a similar fashion and with similar expressions on their faces; but Zayn doesn’t recognize any of them.

Growing desperate, he searches for that familiar face among the crowd around him and panics when he can’t find it, backing away from the voices that turn towards him and call out to him, asking if he’s alright.

And in that moment, Zayn knows he’s going to die.

 _Make it quick_ , he wants to beg. _Make it quick. I’ve had enough. Please, I’ve had enough._

“Zayn, I need you to listen to me, okay?”

Zayn shakes his head stubbornly. He doesn’t know that voice. He doesn’t know that face and he definitely doesn’t know that man so he keeps his mouth shut and his eyes on the floor, hands held over his ears as if that could somehow make it all go away.

“You’re okay now, Zayn. Everything’s fine.”

_Liar. Liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar-_

“Can you hear me, Zayn? Can you speak? It’s okay if you’re scared. I just need to know if you’re okay. Does anything hurt?”

_Everything. Everything hurts._

“He’s going to have another panic attack.” Someone whispers. Another voice he doesn’t recognize. “Should we sedate him?”

“No,” the first voice says firmly and Zayn flinches on instinct. “He’ll be fine. You’re going to be just fine, Zayn. Okay? Come on; you can open your eyes for me, right? Just open your eyes, kid. Everything’s going to be fine.”

He doesn’t believe that. Not for a second. But he opens his eyes anyways because that’s an order and he knows not to disobey. Knows he has to be good.

_Only good pups get fed, little one. Only good pups get food and water and sleep. Only good pups get to stay alive. Are you going to be good for me now? My good little pup?_

_Yes. Yes, yes, please. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. Please._

His eyelids droop but he forces them to stay open, forces his eyes into focus. He can see a little better now, beyond the bright lights and fuzzy faces. The man in front of him is dressed in a white coat; thin-framed glasses perched low over his nose and smile drawn tight across his face. There are five people around him, dressed in light blue scrubs and toying with cables and tubes and needles. Needles that are connected to Zayn’s arm.

God, _what is this?_

“Zayn.” The man in the white coat speaks slowly, carefully; his voice so low and soft that it almost sounds _kind._

Zayn wants to puke.

“You okay?” He asks, brow creasing slightly when Zayn doesn’t answer. “I’m Dr. Stein. I’m here to help you, okay? No one’s going to hurt you anymore, Zayn. You’re safe here.”

Zayn swallows dryly, eyes skirting around the room nervously. He looks down towards the needles tucked under his skin, to the tubes feeding liquid into his arms and then back to the doctor warily. He knows better than to ask, knows better than to speak, so he just whines quietly instead; the way he’s been taught to, hoping he won’t be punished for it.

_Where am I? What am I doing here? Where’s daddy?_

“It’s just a serum to keep you hydrated.” The doctor explains immediately, running a hand through his short, light brown hair as he glances towards the nurses briefly. 

The boy flinches when the doctor’s blue eyes land on him again.

“What’s the last thing you remember, Zayn?”

Zayn bows his head, lowering his eyes to look down at himself once more. He doesn’t know how to answer so he opts for just keeping quiet, frowning down at the gown he’s been fitted into and the soft bed he’s sprawled across.

_What’s going on?_

Dr. Stein sighs, a look of disappointment crossing his face, and Zayn freezes immediately. His heart races; eyes widening in horror and hands beginning to shake on their own accord as he scrambles back on the bed. His breathing picks up immediately and he feels the tears fall from his eyes as he curls into a ball; trying to make himself smaller, tucking his knees under his chin before letting out a desperate sob.

It’s the only sound in the room, apart from his labored breathing, and the silence scares him even more because he doesn’t know what he did wrong.

He was good, wasn’t he? He didn’t move and he didn’t speak and he didn’t look anyone in the eye and he was good, he was perfect and he knows they don’t need a reason, not really, but he was hoping and oh God, he just screwed everything up and-

_Why why why why why why…_

 “No, Zayn, hey, it’s okay. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. You’re okay. It’s all okay. Just breathe, okay? Just breathe. You’re fine. It’s all fine.”

And Zayn keeps crying, shaking his head because it’s _not, it’s not, it’s not._ It’s _not_ fine. It never is. They’re going to punish him and it’s going to hurt and he can’t breathe-

“Zayn, come on. Stop crying, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you, Zayn. I promise. Everything’s fine, yeah? Can you breathe? Can you open your eyes for me? Are you alright? Zayn, I need you to talk to me, come on.”

“ _Please_.” He squeaks out finally, because maybe they want to hear it. Maybe they’re that kind. Maybe they want to listen to him cry and beg and apologize and promise to be better. And he _will_ , if that’s what they want. He’ll do anything, if only they just told him what they wanted, if only-

“Okay, Zayn. Okay, you’re doing great, yeah? Just breathe now. You need to breathe. Come on, Zayn, breathe.”

Zayn sobs harder, covering his ears with his hands. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to breathe; he just wants to pass out. He wants to sleep. Forever. He wants to sleep and never wake up and he doesn’t want to be here and he doesn’t want to listen and he _definitely_ doesn’t want to talk because he knows what’ll happen when he does and he’s had enough already and he just wants to die-

_Please, God. Please let me die._

There’s movement around him when he finally opens his eyes again. There are less people in the room now, but there are new ones. Scarier ones. Big men wearing uniforms and carrying weapons and looking mean and angry and _painful._

“Hello, Zayn.”

Zayn jumps at the voice, snapping his head to the side and scurrying back immediately. The man is sitting in a chair next to the bed, closer than Zayn is comfortable with, and though he doesn’t look as big and tough as the others; Zayn isn’t reassured. He knows how deceiving appearances can be.

“Dr. Stein says you’ve passed out twice now.”

Zayn nods, bowing his head immediately; shutting his eyes.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

“It’s okay, Zayn.” The officer tells him. “Don’t worry about it. We just want to make sure you’re alright. How are you feeling?”

_Leave me alone. Please, please, please, leave me alone. I don’t want to. God, I don’t want to. Just go away. Please, please, please, please-_

“Do you feel faint? Dizzy?” He asks, shifting in his chair slightly.

Zayn flinches, thinking the officer is about to reach out and touch him but the man stays seated, straightening out his brown trousers and looking around the room thoughtfully. His brown eyes rake across the hospital room, scanning his surroundings briefly before motioning for the other men to exit the room. They nod silently, shuffling out the door obediently, and Zayn jumps when the door is slammed shut and he’s left alone with the man in front of him.

Because somehow being alone with the one officer is scarier than sharing a room with two armed men.

“I know you don’t understand what’s going on,” The officer –Zayn’s vision is too blurred by tears to be able to make out the name on his badge- tells him. “But I promise everything’s going to be fine, okay? I just need to ask you some questions.”

Zayn keeps his mouth shut, just like he’s been taught.

“Do you remember anything before waking up here?”

Zayn feels obligated to at least nod, not wanting to seem like he’s ignoring the man on purpose, but doesn’t dare speak up.

“What do you remember?”

Zayn watches the man silently but doesn’t make any effort to speak. Not that he could, even if he were allowed to. He’s concentrating too much on keeping his breathing steady and his hands from shaking to be able to do anything else.

“Can you speak?”

Zayn keeps quiet. He knows what this is now. A test of some sorts. It hast to be. They want to make sure he knows his place. They want to make sure he doesn’t step out of line. They want to make sure he behaves. Or maybe it’s a trap. Maybe they’re taunting him on purpose, trying to get him to break.

Zayn’s not going to fall for it.

“Do you know how you got here?”

Zayn hesitates for a moment, and then shakes his head. The officer nods minutely, opening his mouth as if it to say something before shaking his head and closing it again.

“If you can’t speak I can keep something for you to write on.”

Zayn makes sure to stay completely silent. 

“When’s the last time you ate something?”

The grumbling in Zayn’s stomach and the clenching pain in his chest is answer enough.

“How old are you, Zayn?”

Zayn freezes. It’s stupid, that a little thing like that would make him break into tears, but he can’t help it. Can’t help the desperate, broken sobs that are wretched out him and the shivers that run down his spine as his breath leaves him in hot puffs of air. He answers every question after that, all of them with the same response, murmured over and over again, uncaring of the consequences that the words will bring him later.

_I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. Please, I don’t know._

\---------------

They try to explain. They do. But Zayn doesn’t get any of it.

They talk about his daddy, and they talk about jail, but he just doesn’t _understand._ And he gets scared every time they mention it, thinking he’s in trouble and that they’re going to lock him up, so eventually they stop trying to explain. Eventually they let him cry himself to sleep in a corner of the room while unfamiliar doctors and nurses prod at him with sharps needles, or detectives and officers ask him questions and take pictures.

He screams every time the woman comes in. She’s a psychologist, and so she asks questions. But her questions are different than the rest. He doesn’t _like_ her questions, so he screams and cries and pukes all over the floor and eventually the woman leaves the room. Leaves him alone to his thoughts.

And the thing is that Zayn doesn’t know what to think. Half the time he doesn’t even know where he is, who he’s with, or what’s going on. He doesn’t know what to expect, and that’s the worst part of it all. Because while no one has hurt him yet, Zayn knows it’s just a matter of time.

Pain, he can take.

It’s the waiting and worrying that scares him the most.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
